Trail Runner - Running Costa Brava

Four
Perfect
Days
A trail-running tour of Spain’s
Costa Brava region yields
an unexpected immersion
in Catalonian gastronomy,
culture and history.
BY ELINOR FISH
PHOTOS BY CHRIS HUNTER
The author passes by Sant Pere de rodes monastery on the
steep hillside of Verdera mountain overlooking Port de la Selva.
Our guide from Running Costa Brava Tours,
Pablo Rodriguez, is easily recognizable in the
Girona’s bustling train terminal. Not because
I’ve met him before or seen his photo; rather,
I recognize him in the way a runner recognizes
another runner.
Pablo is wearing a crimson hydration vest over a well-worn, sweatstained technical T-shirt with grey shorts, his sockless feet in
pancake-flat yellow running shoes that scream running geek. His
bald head shines as brightly as his eyes when we make visual contact. He bounds towards me, deer-like, with a light and springy gait.
“Welcome to Catalunya!” he says.
Photographer Chris Hunter and I are spending the next four
days with Pablo for a fully supported Catalonia trail-running tour
of Costa Brava’s ancient villages, spas and wineries between Girona
and the French border at the Pyrenees. We’d spent the previous
day in Barcelona, exploring the famous city’s La Rambla tourist
district and famous Goudi landmarks. After a night in the city, we
hopped an early morning train northeast to Girona, where our tour
would begin.
During the hour-long drive to the trailhead the conversation gravitates to running. “Running is not just a sport; it’s as natural as
breathing,” says Pablo, who gave up shoes and began running in
Tarahumara-inspired Luna sandals after reading the bestselling
book Born to Run. “Humans don’t really need anything between
their feet and the ground. Running without shoes is a matter of
softness.”
Then he asks if we’ve heard of Kilian Jornet, arguably the most
talented young trail runner on the planet. “He’s Catalonian, you
know,” Pablo says proudly.
While Catalonia (Catalunya in Catalan) is under Spanish rule,
Pablo explains that it is an autonomous region with a proudly distinct culture, defined largely by its cuisine and language. All locals
speak Catalan, which was banned until just 37 years ago but now
appears on all the region’s road signs.
“How long has it been since Catalonia was a country?” I ask.
“Not long, about 300 years,” says Pablo. I snicker, then realize
that, to Catalonians, 300 years isn’t a long time. “Someday we will
again be our own nation.”
Pablo turns off the highway onto a country road that winds
through green pastures and vast sunflower fields. Then we turn
onto a barely passable, rocky dirt road that weaves uphill through
forests of cork trees from which the bark has been stripped to make
bottle corks.
As we near the trailhead, I ask Pablo who maintains the trail
system. “Some I made myself using the paths forged by wild boars,
but they are low to the ground so I must clear the way for people
using my machete,” he says.
“I gotta see that,” chirps Chris from the back seat.
“Wild boars?” I quiver.
“Yes, but not to worry,” assures Pablo. “They are harmless.”
We pile out of the car at a centuries-old stone church in a grassy
meadow. Trails disappear into the forest in all directions. We are
miles from the nearest town so I can only surmise that the faithful
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View of the Gaverres Mountains from Girona, home to the Castillo de Sant Miquel.
walk these trails to attend mass. The scent of salty sea air spurs me
to action. “C’mon, let’s go!” I yell to Chris, who carefully loads his
camera gear into a lightweight hydration pack he had bought especially for this trip. Chris, who lives in the adventure-sport hub of
Moab, Utah, typically shoots photos of skydivers and BASE jumpers, but luckily, he saw the opportunity to spend a week running
and shooting photos in Spain as equally thrilling.
Pablo points us to one of the trailheads and hands me a GPS unit
by which we will navigate the day’s 23-kilometer route. He waves
goodbye as he starts the car to drive around the hillside to meet us
at our next rendezvous point.
Forty-five minutes later, we emerge from a dirt road surrounded
by head-high shrubbery onto a sandy knoll shaded by trees bending in the relentless south winds, where Pablo stood waiting. The
three of us hop off the knoll and run along the white-sand beach,
passing in front of a dozen wooden boat houses, each one’s door
painted a vibrant red, green, blue or yellow. As essential to coastal
life in Costa Brava as car garages in America, these coveted boat
shelters are never bought or sold, but are passed on from one generation to the next.
The trail contours the cliff tops above the pounding sea, changing from soft to crude stone steps that ascend and descend the
rocky shoreline. Soon we hit the smooth, gentle Cami de Ronda,
which leads to the glistening whitewashed, red-tile-roofed villas of
Llafranc, which Pablo describes as a “simple” fishing village. Yet a
row of gourmet restaurants and upscale boutiques line its beachfront promenade.
The moment we step onto Llafranc’s cobblestone streets, dark
storm clouds overhead release a deluge. We duck into an empty
restaurant for beers and pa amb tomata, a Catalonian open-faced
sandwich made by rubbing a juicy, red tomato half onto a piece of
fresh, crusty bread then draping it with cured meat slices.
“Here, please take my rain shell,” Chris offers.
Pablo, wearing only running shorts and T-shirt, waves away the
jacket in Chris’s hand.
“No, the human body is made for self regulation. I’ll see you in
an hour,” he says, dashing barefoot through the hammering rain
to fetch the car.
The next morning, I awake to the feeling of intense heat on my face
and open my eyes to the sun-filled room at El Far, which, before
being a hotel, was an 18th-century
monastery.
I slip on a fuzzy terrycloth robe,
open the narrow French doors and
step onto the balcony of our clifftop accommodations. Leaning on
the wrought-iron railing, I listen
to the gentle sound of waves crashPablo Rodriguez leads the way along stashes of singletrack winding around his home city of Girona.
ing onto the rocks far below. To the
right is Sant Sebasti de la Guarda
lighthouse overlooking the street where we’d dined the night before stand there contemplating, Chris sprints past me and enthusiastion richly seasoned seafood-and-rice paella at Llevant restaurant. cally takes the leap. But my clothes will get soaked and I’ll have
To the north is an unobstructed view of the rocky shoreline that is to change and reapply sunscreen and we still have a long way
the site of today’s 22-kilometer run.
to go …
I descend the grand stone staircase that for centuries was travThe shock of plunging into the frigid sea is the face slap I
eled only by monks and take a seat in the solarium for breakfast. deserve. Hauling myself onto the rocks with water streaming from
Doing my best to avoid over-indulging on rich cheeses and cured my clothes, I laugh at my uptightness. Remember, Elinor, you’re on
meats, I opt instead for the fresh fruit, creamy, unsweetened yogurt vacation; there is no schedule, no objective.
and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
After changing into dry clothes at the car, Chris and I follow the
We start running at 11 a.m., with Pablo leading us along well- GPS’s arrow pointing us inland. We miss the ocean’s cool breeze
worn seaside paths connecting a series
and sweat under the sun’s rays. Our feet
of pebble-beached coves. We greet hiking
“Some trails I made myself using sink into the sandy trail that takes us
couples and beach-going families with
through a tree plantation. As we gain elethe paths forged by wild boars,
the Catalonian phrase, “Bon dia!” as we
vation, it turns to firm doubletrack surpass.
rounded by natural forest. After cresting
but they are low to the ground
Nearing the marine village of Tamariu,
the hilltop, we rocket down the other side
so I must clear the way for people until we reach a pancake-flat road leadPablo tells us about his family life with
his wife, Cristina, juggling two jobs and
ing us to the medieval city of Pals.
using my machete,” says Pablo.
living with four active sons under the age
Traversing the ancient stone fortifiof eight when he suddenly stops and turns to face us, a serious cations encircling Pals—reputedly Christopher Columbus’ port
expression on his face. “I may not be the boss at home, but here I of departure—cars and paved roads are replaced with pedestriam the boss,” he says. “Follow me!”
ans and narrow cobblestone streets. Being in Pals feels like visitI hesitate, wondering what he has in store. Pablo veers off the ing another era. At the center of its beautifully restored Gothic
trail and hops wildly from boulder to boulder next to the water. Quarter is a 13th-century Romanesque tower called Torre de les
Without breaking stride, he flicks off his sandals, yanks off his top Hores, from where sentries would scan the horizon for pirates and
and sprints off the end of a wooden diving board, hitting the water other invaders.
with a sploosh.
It’s all we can do to keep up with Pablo as he darts along streets
By now I know Pablo well enough to know he won’t let me off so narrow my outstretched hands touch the buildings on either
the hook. Reluctantly I remove my pack and unlace my shoes. side. He abruptly halts in front of a small wooden door and motions
My hyper-efficient tendencies—which serve me well in ultrama- us to sit at one of the three slim metal tables out front.
rathons—kick in and I feel slightly annoyed with the delay. After
“We’re here!” he declares.
all, we’d only covered a few miles and many more remain. As I
Chris and I glance at one another, wondering what “here” means.
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Clockwise from top left: Soaking in the therapeutic waters of the Mas Spa at Mas de Torrent hotel. Dining on mussels from the local bay at Can Rafa Restaurant. Raising a glass
in Pals after an adventurous day on the trails. The wine barrels at Cellar Martín Faxió
winery. Enjoying a visit with owner Rafa Martín Mota. Browsing the tourist shops in Pals.
[ Example Week-long Itinerary ]
Day 1 From Barcelona, take the train to Girona. Run 17 kilometers, including a tour of the Girona’s historic city center and run
to Sant Miquel Castle. Overnight at Legends Hotel.
Day 2 Run 23 kilometers from Fitor to Llafranc. Overnight at El
Far hotel in Llafranc.
Day 3 Run 22 kilometers from Llafranc to the medieval city of
Pals. Enjoy a treatment at Mas Spa. Overnight at Mas Camangau in Begur.
Day 4 Run 24 kilometers from l’Escala to Castello d’Empuries.
Visit the Teatre-Museu Dali. Overnight at Castello d’Empuries.
Day 5 Run 23 kilometers from Roses up to the mountains via
the Ruta del Dolmens to Cadaqués. Wine tasting at the Cellar
Martín Faxió winery. Overnight at Hotel Rocamar.
Day 6 Run 29 kilometers from Cadequés to Port de la Selva
through Cap de Crues National Park. Overnight at Port de la
Selva.
Day 7 Run 20 kilometers from Port de la Selva to Sant Pere de
Rodes Monastery to Portbou at the French border. Take the train
back to Barcelona.
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56
“Our run is done for today; now it’s time for beer!”
We cheer and step through the small doorway into a room barely wide enough for a bar and a row of bar stools. We order three
Estrella Damm Catalonian pilsners and take a seat outside in the
warm sunshine.
Before long, Pablo reminds us that the day is not over; we have a
spa appointment. A short drive takes us to Mas de Torrent, a luxury
hotel of the prestigious Relais & Château Group. We walk through
the hotel’s manicured landscape to Mas Spa, a zen-inspired ultramodern spa tucked into a lush garden. For the next two hours,
hot-water jets massage my tired muscles, an ice-cold plunge pool
flushes the soreness from my joints and rosemary-infused bath
products refresh my senses.
Later that evening we drive to Mas Camangau hotel in the nearby
town of Begur, and the owner, Miguel, greets us like old friends. His
grey-streaked hair is pulled back into a short ponytail and his jovial
face sports cheeks as round as his eyeglasses. Grey stone archways
frame the entrance to each room of the 200-year-old-farmhouseturned-boutique hotel, giving it a cozy yet regal ambiance.
Miguel leads us out a back door and down more steps into a garden patio. “Your room is in the back where the horses were kept,”
Miguel says with a chuckle. The old barn-wood door with iron fixtures opens to a charming room with a vaulted ceiling and modern
amenities.
At what is normally my bedtime, Chris and I take our seats in the
hotel’s restaurant, where Miguel announces that he has arranged a
special tasting menu for us. The first delicious bite of salmon ceviche
served with vichyssoise sets the tone for what is a five-course feast
of Catalonian delicacies. Between gulps of local red wine we savor
bites of hand-made aubergine ravioli served with mussels and rosemary, then delicate fish filets on a tomato purée topped with olive
tapenade and chives, followed by thinly sliced roasted duck topped
with a sweet sauce made with strawberries, raspberries and sherry.
Every dish includes local ingredients and some personal connec-
Left: There was no better way to explore Catalonia’s narrow streets than by running with our entertaining and knowledgeable guide, Pablo.
Right: Running along the Cap de Creus headland near Cadequés.
tion to Miguel or his family.
“The father of the wife of my brother grows this melon,” Miguel
explains with pride when our server delivers two pieces of bisbalen, a Catalonian melon-jam-filled pastry dusted with powdered
sugar. “And it tastes even better with this,” he says, pouring a
sweet-smelling, clear liqueur into a couple of shot glasses.
“Oh, no, none for me!” I say, thinking ahead to tomorrow’s run.
“Well, I can’t say no,” says Chris as Miguel fills his glass for a
second time.
our necks to gaze at the bell tower rising from its center. Laying
my palm on the cool stone, I close my eyes and savor the serenity
conjured by this place’s sacredness.
I soon forget my disappointment that we don’t have time to pay
the small entrance fee and tour the interior when we begin a treacherous mile-and-a-half, straight-downhill sprint to Santa Creus.
Turning south, we follow the coastline for 20 kilometers, passing through Port de la Selva en route to Cadequés, where would be
stopping for the night. I am grateful for the mindless ease of following the gently rolling trail through olive-tree orchards, meadows
The next morning we drive to Figueres, the first large town we’ve and past Salvador Dali’s former residence (easily identifiable for
encountered since departing Girona, to visit the Teatre-Museu the giant egg adorning the roof). As we reach the Cap de Creus
Dali, a museum dedicated to Salvador Dali’s surreal artwork. A headland, the orchards give way to a barren landscape of razortrue Catalonian, Dali’s love of fine food
sharp fins of black stone reminiscent of
influenced his art in unexpected ways,
Hawaiian lava fields. From this easternWith heads down and arms
his favorite foods appearing in sculptures
most tip of the Iberian Peninsula, we
pumping, we ascend 1500 feet
and paintings.
watch the iron-grey rain clouds crowd
over the next hour and a half
After an hour of roaming the museum’s
out the sun’s final rays.
crowded, narrow hallways like livestock
That evening, we meet Pablo for dinner
to eventually stand before the
in a cattle chute, we’re ready to escape
under the awning at restaurant Can Rafa
enormous Sant Pere de Rodes.
the tourist trap and begin our 29-kilojust as a thunderstorm releases its fury.
meter run through the wild landscape of
It’s prime dinner hour and yet the streets
National Parc Cap de Creus from the town of Llança to Cadaqués.
and restaurants are deserted.
Pablo drops us off at the base of Coll Perer’s rocky, wind-scoured
Suddenly, boisterous cheers from an unseen crowd pierce the
hillside where only hardy scrub grows. Then he points to a ridge silence.
line high above us.
“It’s the game,” says Pablo. “Everyone is in the bars watching the
“Follow the ridge around to the right to Verdera Mountain and Barcelona versus Madrid futbol match. Sounds like Barcelona just
eventually you’ll see the monastery,” he says.
scored.”
With heads down and arms pumping, we ascend 1500 feet over
These days, Spanish versus Catalan political clashes are settled
the next hour and a half to eventually stand before the enormous on the soccer field rather than the battle field. Catalonians (repSant Pere de Rodes, a former Benedictine monastery dating back to resented by team Barcelona) are lobbying for independence from
878. Chris, who had been sluggish on the climb due to last night’s Spain (represented by team Madrid). While separatist political
digestif, perks up at the sight of the monastery’s grandeur. “This parties exist, they so far lack enough clout within the Spanish
place is killer for photos!” says Chris, darting around to scout the political system to achieve independence.
best shooting angles.
Shortly after the game ends, with Barcelona’s defeat, the streets
Running up to the monastery’s massive stone walls, we crane fill with despondent fans. Then everything goes dark, an appar-
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september 2012 | Tr ailrunnerm ag.com
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Costa Brava, Catalonia, Spain
GETTING THERE Fly to Barcelona. Tours
begin and end in Girona. From Barcelona,
take the Renfe regional train service to
Girona (7.50 euros per person each way).
www.renfe.com
WHEN TO GO Costa Brava is an ideal
year-round trail-running destination,
though you might want to avoid the
tourism high season and go in spring or
fall when temperatures are cool, sunshine
is prevalent and beaches are uncrowded.
Winter (December to February) is
generally mild and rarely cold.
INFORMATION Running Costa Brava Tours
(www.runningcostabrava.com) organizes
custom running tours throughout Costa
Brava. Owners Pablo and Cristina
Rodriguez build custom itineraries with
GPS-mapped running routes.
Package prices depend on the number
of people in your group, quality of hotels,
time of year (in July and August hotel
rates average 20 percent higher than the
low season), trip duration and your choice
of additional activities (kayaking, spa,
parasailing, museums, wine tasting, etc.).
One-week packages in low season (October
through March) begin at 752 euros per
person (three-star hotels) and 914 euros
per person (four-star hotels).
Packages include guided runs, hotel
bookings, local ground transportation,
luggage transfers, water stops, energy
snacks, additional activities and restaurant
reservations. Breakfasts are included with
all hotel reservations.
Available through online distributors.
See www.blistoban.com
ent power failure due to the thunderstorm.
“It’s those bastards in Madrid!” a passerby
yells from the darkness. Our fellow diners
shout back in agreement and shake a fist,
swearing to get them next time.
The game is quickly forgotten when dinner arrives. We devour platter after platter
of locally caught tallarines and berberexos
(varieties of mussels) swimming in olive
oil and fresh-ground pepper, followed by
erisos (sea urchins), gambitias (grilled
prawns served with head and shell on) and
whole anchovies served on rounds of seasoned crustini.
I swear I have no room in my belly for
another bite of food when dessert appears.
“It’s not about eating; it’s about pleasure,” says Pablo. He’s right, I say to myself
as I dip a spoon into the fluffy, caramelencrusted apple mousse.
After spending the night in Cadequés, Chris,
Pablo and I head to the Cellar Martín
Faxió winery, at the behest of Rafel Martín
Faxió, our server at dinner last night at Can
Rafa, whose parents own both the winery
and restaurant.
Rafel greets us with the same warmth
we’d experienced the previous evening.
“Everything is done by hand, even putting
the labels on the bottles,” he says, walking
us past the rows of wooden wine barrels.
Rafel’s father, Rafa Martín Mota, motions
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58
for us sit in a cozy, cave-like room next to a
wood-burning fireplace. On a small wooden table are glasses of full-bodied red wine
and plates of cheeses and paper-thin pork
slices that melt in my mouth.
By noon, we’re driving back to Girona to
begin our final run stage, starting with a
four-mile jaunt uphill through the Gavarres
Forest following the Torre Gironella trail
(and some of Pablo’s machete-cut trails)
to the ruins of Castell de Sant Miquel that
overlook the city. From our vantage point
at 1300 feet above sea level, we survey the
vast terrain we’d covered on foot over the
preceding few days.
After returning by the same trail to
Girona, Pablo takes us on a whirlwind
running tour of Girona’s ancient, serpentine streets, landmarks and alleyways.
“Just how old is Girona?” asks Chris.
“Well, these stones here were laid by
the Romans in 75 BC,” says Pablo. “And
that cathedral was originally built as a
Zeus temple.”
“Pablo, what is your favorite part of
doing these tours: the running, the food
or the history lesson?” asks Chris. Pablo
smiles and thoughtfully studies the layers
of stone in the wall—each one laid by a
different settler or conqueror over the past
2000 years—before voicing his response.
“I believe the only real way to experience
a place is to run through it,” he says. ■